A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

under my breath. “So I have to go write a story on twelve-year-olds dropping their drawers and coughing for Dr. Geraldo?”

“You don’t have to go inside,” said Charlie as if agreeing to a concession. “And of course no pictures of that. Maybe a couple shots of the boys waiting with their dads outside. Some upbeat quotes about how excited they are about the upcoming season. You can knock it out in ten minutes.”

“When and where?”

Union Station was a grand edifice. Built around the turn of the century, it reigned over much of Broadway near the river. That part of the city had fallen into decay and retained little of its former glory. Governor Rockefeller had ambitious plans for downtown Albany, however, as evidenced by the roaring demolition going on several blocks to the west of the station.

At a few minutes past ten, I entered the majestic Beaux Arts building from Maiden Lane and peeled my eyes for sweepers. Finding none on the job, I checked with the stationmaster. He asked me what I wanted with Tommy. I lied that I was his niece, and he pointed to a door marked “Maintenance” halfway down the platform.

“Keep it short,” he offered as parting advice. “He’s got work to do.”

The door indicated by the stationmaster was wide open. Seated cross-legged on the floor, a man in his thirties was sweating like a yak as he monkeyed with the innards of an overturned marble-buffing machine. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

“Inside the terminal,” he said. “Past the newsstand, to the left of the phone booths.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The ladies’,” he said, dragging the greasy back of his hand across his brow.

I’m sure I blushed. “Oh, no. I’m not . . . Actually, I was looking for Tommy McLaglen. Would he be you?”

“Yeah. I be he.” He chuckled. “Who be you?”

I introduced myself and said I was there to inquire about his wife, Vivian. The smiling face collapsed. He pushed himself off the floor and wiped his hands on a rag. The muscles of his forearms tensed and twisted under his skin as he did. I thought he was ruggedly handsome in a broken-nose, take-me-now-on-the-floor-of-the-stable kind of way. Lady Chatterley’s type, not mine.

“What’s this about exactly?”

“I’m investigating a fire that burned down a barn on an abandoned farm in Saratoga County.”

“What’s that got to do with Viv?”

I gulped. This was her husband after all. Breaking the news of my suspicions wasn’t going to be easy.

“I’d like to speak to your wife about the fire,” I said, playing for time.

I needn’t have worried. Tommy McLaglen tossed the rag on the workbench behind him and sneered. “I don’t know where she is. I’ve only seen her once in the past eight years.”

“Eight years? But you’re still married.”

He stared at me for a moment. “Yeah. So how’s she mixed up in this fire business? Did she set it?”

My words caught in my throat despite myself. “Oh, Mr. McLaglen. She didn’t set the fire. I believe she died in it.”

I might just as well have kicked him in the gut. He bent over, held a hand over his midsection, and wobbled into a seat on a stool next to the workbench.

“Are you saying she’s dead?” he asked once he’d composed himself.

I weighed my words before pronouncing them. “There’s been no identification yet.”

He drew a long sigh, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then straightened his spine. He stared at me for a full ten seconds before speaking.

“I’m sure she deserved what she got,” he said before producing a handkerchief where he buried his face to weep.

Tommy McLaglen unburdened himself. He told me how his brother had married the young Vivian Coleman during the war when she was still in bobby socks and barrettes. He’d loved her even then. Even when his older brother brought her home to two parents who couldn’t have been more disappointed if she’d arrived cash on delivery. Tommy was sixteen and didn’t know what to make of the beauty his brother had bagged. And she had little idea of the effect her charms exerted on him. Or perhaps she realized all too well. The silent, meaningful glances at the dinner table, the encounters in the corridor, brushing past one another as they headed to and from the shared bathroom. There was always a little extra friction in Vivian’s grazes, a lingering of her fingertips on his shoulder or hand. Something more than a sister-in-law should ever need to share with her husband’s younger brother.

“They moved out after a year and a half,” he said, head hanging low, elbows resting on his knees. “I didn’t see her for another year, except for at Easter and Pop’s birthday. That’s when it happened.”

“You slept with her? Your brother’s wife?”

He offered a sheepish shrug. “We started meeting up after Pop’s birthday party. At run-down hotels, in my car, at the movies. Anywhere we could be alone for a few minutes.”

My mouth had gone dry. I said nothing, willing him to continue.

“We were in love. She hated Ernie. My brother. We talked about running off together, but neither of us had any money. Then my mother nearly caught us one day. She was supposed to be working, but she forgot her gloves. She cleaned houses in Delmar.”

“Did she guess what was going on?” I asked.

“I think so. She never said anything to me, but I got the cold shoulder for a couple of weeks. And she never left me alone with Viv again.”

“So things cooled off?”

“I joined the navy and served two years at sea. When I came back, Ernie got called up for Korea. He moved Viv out to California where he did his boot camp. Then he shipped out. He was killed in action three months later.”

“And you two decided to get married after that?”

“We waited six months. Had to make it respectable.”

They’d failed, at least in my opinion. I can’t imagine what his family thought.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what